Unwanted Gifts
by DarthRexPoke44
Summary: After stumbling on to a piece of paper, Arthur realizes that he could use magic. How would Arthur react from this, and how would Merlin react from finding this out?
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first fanfic, so please review. And I hope for nothing harsh.**

* * *

"Utter incompetence!" Arthur hollered as he kicked in the door dramatically, holding up his ruined jerkin. However, Merlin wasn't there. Nor Gaius; the physician's quarters were empty and quiet, except for the systematic bubbling of an ominous vat in the corner.

Feeling a little foolish, he stepped inside and dropped his arm. He glanced around, halfway thinking that if he just looked hard enough someone might turn up from where they'd been hiding behind a stretcher or a cauldron.

As always the room was strung with pungent herbs and rows upon rows of beady-eyed vials. The shelves housed more books than were surely healthy. The quarters were quite large, nearly the same as both his antechamber and bedroom together, except two stories tall, and crammed full of strange things. He respected the space though. He'd seen his men laid out on the various tables enough to know that the generous size was a necessity rather than a favor to Gaius. During an attack you need as many tables as you can get.

Merlin stubbornly refused to show up. Arthur peeked at various jars and mortars, though he was careful not to touch or lean in too closely. With the room empty he almost felt a trespasser, even if it did lay within the castle. A faint curiosity perked up in him. What was it the physician did with all his tools? What was that thing over there that looked like a bit of glass on a stick?

The bubbling and smells unnerved him. He should probably leave. Except it didn't feel right to just barge in here and poke around without an excuse. Gaius was almost an uncle to him, and his privacy should be protected. Imagine if he were to return now to find the Prince snooping about.

Ah, maybe Merlin was hiding in his room being useless. Arthur could check the bedroom. There, that was reasonable wasn't it?

Except Merlin wasn't in his bedroom, blast him. And his bed was unmade and clothes were all over the floor. What right did Merlin have complaining about having to pick up after Arthur, if he left his own belongings strewn about as if they'd been blown in from a storm?

Grinning viciously, Arthur snatched up a few ragged shirts, fisting them in his hand. They'd be evidence he could throw at his manservant, along with his own shredded jerkin. Seriously, did Merlin just let the dogs play with his clothes? Did he get some sort of perversion from destroying Arthur's things, as if he were getting back at his master somehow?

There was a scrap of paper lodged between some discarded pants, bits of scrawled writing peeking out. Arthur picked it up with his fingertips, curiosity returning. Some medical notes Gaius was teaching to Merlin? Maybe one of those unsettling drawings of the human form with pieces removed? Only done in Merlin's awful drawing skill. That would be a laugh.

It was some sort of script. Terms for medicines, perhaps. "Ligfýr... arwe," he sounded out absently.

The paper sparked on his fingers and he dropped it hastily, but the sparks stayed and flickered up through his hands, through his chest and back, building in strength until they ricocheted through his arms and out in a torrent of sizzling heat. He grunted and collapsed against the side of Merlin's bed as if he'd just been felled by a catapult.

The cupboard was on fire, he contemplated, as he lay there with his ears ringing.

A sorcerer! His brain put together the pieces and he jerked up and hauled himself to his feet, sword coming out and held at the ready. He pivoted wildly, head swinging.

Arthur was still alone, though. That or the wizard attacking him was invisible. Which was entirely possible. "Show yourself!" he hollered, and tried chopping at the air blindly. The potential wizard failed to materialize or be skewered.

He searched about for the paper he'd been holding - perhaps it was enchanted - but it had already caught up the flames as the cupboard spread its malady to the strewn clothing. The fire had a most decidedly magical quality about it, he felt. It was just a little too bright and moving too fast, like a predatory animal hunting for flesh. Cursing, he backed out of the cramped bedroom and hunted for some water to stave off the destruction.

He didn't find any water, but he did find several hundred potions and medicines, most of which were probably very, very flammable.

He closed the door behind him to buy a little time and barreled out into the hallway, calling for guards. Why were they always stationed at the wrong places during a crisis? Seriously, why were they all up on the safe sturdy stone walls instead of circulating the hallways, knocking on doors to ask 'by the way, you're not on fire in here are you'?

Instead he ran into Merlin, hauling a load down the hallway. "Your bedroom's on fire," he shouted in passing. "Try to stall; I'll find help."

By the time he got a team of guards with buckets together and returned, the blaze was out. Merlin was pushing a broom around in the soot. He blinked up at Arthur entering with an appalled expression. "What, I'm so bad a servant that you have to destroy my things?" he sulked. "This wasn't for the jerkin, was it?"

Arthur ignored the comment and peered into the charred room. Not much more had been damaged than when he'd left it. "How'd you put it out so fast?"

"Oh, uhm... Gaius had some fire stopping stuff. You know, chemicals."

Arthur scuffed a boot in the ashes of the clothing pile. The charring was paper thin and broke away to reveal untouched clothes. "They work a treat," he commented. Strange, the floor wasn't even wet. Were Gaius' chemical dry, or had they evaporated?

Satisfied that the destruction was over, Arthur sent the guards away. When they were gone he turned to his manservant soberly. Even though they were alone, he instinctively lowered his voice. "You need to be careful, Merlin, I think someone might be trying to kill you. That blaze was magical, I'm sure of it."

Merlin took a step back and grinned nervously. "What, magic? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. There was a paper, it had some sort of enchantment on it, I think." Arthur toed through the remains searching, but all of the papers had gone up quickly and left little remaining. "I didn't recognize the language. I read it and the whole room went up."

Merlin stared at the blackened debris, dumbfounded, then at Arthur with the same glazed shock. "...You did what?"

"I'm fine, don't worry," Arthur reassured him. "But we need to keep a careful eye out. They're probably targeting you because you're my servant. So long as we keep alert they shouldn't be able to target you again, whoever they are." He pondered for a moment, then added "And let's not let my father find out about this."

"Right," Merlin agreed hastily.

* * *

They'd gotten Merlin's belongings sorted out in due course and ordered him a few new shirts and bedding from the court tailor, since most of his laundry was at least singed. Arthur didn't bother with replacing the cupboard; it wasn't as if Merlin used it anyway. Without it he'd have a little more floorspace to leave things lying out on.

Merlin acted skittish all evening, dropping things and glancing furtively at the Prince. Arthur pretended not to notice. He couldn't blame him, the poor lad was probably unused to the idea of an assassin wanting him dead. It was different when it was Arthur's life. With him it was just part of how the world worked, always the thought in the back of the mind that anything could be an opening ploy. One couldn't focus on it all the time or you'd go mad. Instead you just keep aware and react when signs crop up. But Merlin was from some backwater village. The only person that'd ever wanted him murdered was probably an ornery pig or the brother of a girl he fancied. Arthur made a mental note to work on his servant's self defense some more. Life was hard enough at court when you knew how to protect yourself.

When dinner had passed and he'd shooed Merlin off for the night, Arthur stood before his fireplace and ruminated. He stayed there for a long time, arms crossed, watching the glowing embers where they banked, sensing the hints of heat on his skin, matching the cool on his back that dropped into a chill as the night came on. All the distant noises of the castle wound down and settled in to rest until dawn.

Finally he held out a finger outstretched and murmured "Ligfýr arwe."

Blinding roaring sparks poured out of his arm and clashed against the stonework inside the fireplace. A few seconds and they died down, and the wood burned a little brighter, crackling.

"Well, hell," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Arthur was awake when Merlin came round to rouse him, but pretended not to be. He got up as commanded and munched casually through his breakfast while Merlin puttered and chattered. Then they dressed him and headed out for a tour of the walls.

Arthur looked over the guards and made suggestions about how better for them to perform their rounds. He inspected a decaying of the plasterwork on a far corner of the castle. He double-checked the game stockroom to ensure the autumn meats were coming in on schedule.

He trained his knights, the habitual clanging of metal and quick panting breaths through armored slits a soothing ritual. He pushed himself a bit harder than average, going past exertion and into fatigue, so that he'd have an excuse to act tired. Merlin chided him for mussing up the polish on his gorget.

He stood through his father's meeting about the border troop deployments. He most determinedly remained the dutiful, attentive son he'd always been. Mentions of sorcerers were met with a casual answer and without so much as a flinch. He kept Merlin busy meanwhile with chores to prevent stress.

He had lunch.

More inspections, this time in town. A tavern was being rebuilt from where it had lost a doorway to a beast's attack. The barkeep had chased the clawed thing away with a griddle, for which he was to be commended. Sometimes Arthur could write off the incessant attacks on Camelot as character building; they certainly had the best trained bar brawls around.

He picked out a nice looking roll of fabric from the market, thinking Gwen might want to make herself a new cloak for the oncoming cold months. He promised a pittance fee extra for delivery; he wasn't going to haul the heavy thing back himself, he was a Prince for crying out loud.

He returned to the castle and checked on the condition of one of his favorite horses, who had cracked a hoof on a rock during a frantic chase. The stablemaster had sanded out the trouble nicely and given a good massage to the leg to stave off muscle strain.

He stopped in to warn one of his knights that, if the rumors were true, it wasn't anyone's business who he might enjoy the company of in a private corner or a spare bedroom, but under the dining hall table was really pushing the boundaries of good taste, as well as hygiene. The knight was appropriately contrite, so Arthur didn't add any punishments.

He ate dinner. In his bedroom, since he didn't really want to look at the dining hall table just yet.

He settled in to read a good book. Father had purchased the collection of a deceased scholar for the archives, at a reasonable though handsome sum. The writing style was a bit difficult to pace through, but the bits about Roman combat were worth the effort. He'd have to ask Geoffrey what a phalanx was, though.

He mocked Merlin for not getting around to making the bed until he was ready to lie in it. Together they got him undressed and he stepped into his sleeping pants behind the dressing curtain. Merlin banked the fire and wished him a good night, which he replied to with a grunt.

He rolled onto his side, punched his pillow into a comfortable position, and relaxed, waiting for sleep to come.

A few hours later, he got up with a sigh, crossed to the fireplace, and held out his hand. "Ligfýr arwe."

The torrent came rippling up in golden fire, shattering into the stonework, the embers leaping up to meet it. The fire rolled up into a merry burn again.

"All right," he said to no one. This wasn't going away.

The next breakfast was much harder. Merlin was nervous chattering, probably still glancing over his shoulder constantly for an unknown sorcerer attack. Arthur couldn't figure out a way to tell him there was no danger, false alarm, without bringing up just why he knew this. He chewed through his morning meats systematically, to have a reason not to talk. Merlin didn't seem to notice.

The next meeting with his father was torment incarnate. There'd been a stray warlock cursing peasants in a village, and he'd been captured and brought into Camelot for execution. Uther was very, very pleased. Ever oversensitive, he picked up on Arthur's less than enthusiastic mood and confronted him later. "You mustn't allow yourself to feel for those who cast magic, Arthur. They wouldn't feel for you."

"I know that, Father," Arthur said carefully.

"I don't think you do," Uther pressed. "Too often you have shown compassion to those who deserve none. It may be an admirable trait in a common man, but not in a King."

"Of course, Father," Arthur said carefully.

"You must cultivate a firmer outlook."

"I will try, Father."

"See that you do."

He had to pause in the hallway afterwards to let his breath catch up. He held up a hand to watch it tremor, surprised.

He worked both himself and his men hard that afternoon, taking out the tension in adrenaline until all that left was a warm aching exhaustion, and many bruises. The men decided this was a punishment for the unnamed knight's incident with the table, and glared him down in unison. The knight cowered as much as he could without moving.

Merlin translated this as Arthur fretting over the mysterious sorcerer assassin getting away. "I bet he's not even in town anymore," he mused aloud, trying to soothe his Prince's mood. "I bet he took his one shot, figured he'd shown his hand, and ran for it. Dunno why he'd even try to target me, anyway. Waste of his time. He's probably off trying to kill someone more impressive somewhere else."

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur muttered, rubbing a sore shoulder. He shook off Merlin's following attempt to massage out the stiffness.

Too late it occurred to him that agreeing would've been the perfect way to put Merlin at ease without saying anything about his own troubles. He let out a curse, and then had to apologize to Gwen, who'd been passing by on the stair.

He stopped into the archive to return the book to Geoffrey, and to say he thought he might explore the stacks and find himself another one. No, he didn't need any help, he'd just rifle through. He wandered into the far back where he thought the less public things might be housed, and flipped through a few, looking for any fragments of strange language. He found some in Normanic and one with bits in Pictish. That was about it.

On the way out he asked Geoffrey what a phalanx was. The answer was impressive. He asked Geoffrey to draw him up a diagram.

He caught the knight in the small courtyard, out in the open and everything. He ordered five laps around the castle.

He had dinner with his father and Morgana in the dining hall. It was an interesting experience, fluctuating between difficult to conceal amusement and/or disgust, wondering if there might be stains on the floor, and a nervewracking anxiety that spiked up every time his Father so much as glanced in his direction. He was a lousy conversationalist.

Merlin puttered quieter that evening, his mind too busy to talk. Arthur tried to read his new book. It was harder, somehow, for Arthur to concentrate with Merlin quiet than Merlin talking. Eventually he chased him out with threats of massive chores if he didn't just get out, now Merlin.

He crouched by the fireplace and watched the wood hiss gently.

He held up his hand and examined the fingers. No burns, the same calloused skin as a week ago. He squeezed the fingers in his other hand experimentally. Bone solid underneath. Nothing else hiding beneath the surface. He checked every knuckle just to be sure.

He held it out to the fire. "Ligfýr arwe."

Fire, sparks and brilliance, smashing and crackling on the wood.

He inspected his hand again. No changes. Fingertips slightly warmer to the touch but cooling quickly. The tingle under the skin, pulsing all through him with his heartbeat, faded slowly.

He held his hand with the palm pointed up in front of him, in no particular direction. "Ligfýr arwe."

The shower of flame exploded in every direction and he had to scramble out of the way cursing. His shirt caught fire and he removed it and beat it out. What was left of the sparks sizzled and died out on the stone floor.

He went to bed and curled up in the covers, tucking his head next to his hand where he could look at it in the limited moonlight coming through the curtains. It was still his hand.

"Ligfýr arwe," he couldn't help but whisper, and then had to get out of bed quickly and dump his washing bowl - which Merlin had forgotten - over the mattress. Small favors from incompetent servants, he thought with a minimal annoyance.

Come to think of it, what was a magic script doing in Merlin's bedroom?


	3. Chapter 3

"Merlin you twit," he hissed as he tore the door open, keeping his voice down since Gaius was surely asleep nearby. But Merlin wasn't in his bedroom. Arthur sulked against the doorway.

The room had cleaned up alright, soot swept away and mattress replaced with one cleaner but just as lumpy. If not for the faint charring to the edges of the furniture, and the gaping absence of the demised wardrobe, you couldn't even tell there'd been a fire. It still itched at Arthur's skin though, like a looming accusation pointed at his head. He tried to ignore it as he glanced around.

He'd almost convinced himself at first that there really was an assassin, who'd planted the bit of magical script. Perhaps they'd intended Merlin to read it... but no, Merlin didn't have magic. Did spells work if a person didn't have natural talent? Arthur'd never looked much into it, but he didn't think they would. You had to possess the inclination. Much as he currently regretted that fact.

So if they didn't plan for Merlin to read it, then there probably was no assassin, which meant there was a magical script in Merlin's room because... Merlin put it there? But Merlin didn't have... gah, this was frustrating.

Arthur got over his instinctual reluctance to cross the threshold, and ransacked the place. Tossing sparse pillows and bedding about improved his mood a bit, though he stuck to soft things so as not to wake the elderly physician nearby. He found nothing of interest, except for socks that should be buried instead of worn. He balled his fist to stop the pointed-finger gesture that had sprung up at the sight of the stupid things. More fire would solve nothing.

Merlin's bedroom was disappointingly dull. As strange a creature as his manservant was, always sneaking and spouting odd things, he'd half expected some bizarre secret. Like Merlin secretly collected buttons or kept pictures of clothingless... well, did it count as strange that he didn't do that one? Nearly all the knights had at least one intimate picture tucked away. They kept covering them frantically when Arthur dropped by. He'd only glanced so much as a quickly hidden limb here and there, once an upper torso brazenly exposed, but that was enough for him to get the idea. Though he never got the picture. The sober life of a Prince meant certain things just didn't get shared with him, and he must resort to imagination alone.

Arthur stepped back into the physician's study, with its lurking glass oddities staring at him. He half turned to leave, but his eyes lighted on the bookshelf, and he considered. The library had been a wasted effort, but whispers said Gaius had been a sorcerer, or sorcerer-like or friend to sorcerers, before his father began the burnings. He'd thought them vile rumors, but maybe...

He casually strolled up to the shelf, as if he meant to take the books by surprise, already trying to form his response should Gaius pop up unexpectedly. He was just curious, taking a Princely interest in the affairs of his subjects. He shifted a leatherbound out and peeked at a few pages. Something about muscles and mushroom ointments. Would that be? No, just medical knowledge. He slid it back in with a raspy scrape of leather on leather, and tried the one next to it. Flower petals and boils. He replaced it.

The tomes near the top were dustier, less used. He perched on his tiptoes to work at the seam of one-

The shelf broke free and spilled books in a clashing and whumphing of papers. He leapt back and cringed at the cascading raucous, until the last page settled into the new heap. He waited tensely for a reaction. The seconds passed. Gaius, if he were asleep nearby, remained so. Arthur relaxed and put his sword away.

He stooped to fumble with the books, and the first one he grabbed fell open in his hands to a picture depicting a cauldron with the shape of a heart floating up from it. What in the...

...Oh.

A few more pages flipped. Strange language and explanations of it. Chills scored his muscles and spine. He reminded himself to breathe.

The thought of Gaius walking in to see him with this in his arms - he stood quickly and looked for somewhere to hide it. Should he put it back?

But he was reluctantly to let go. Here were potential answers; he probably wouldn't get a second opportunity. There probably wasn't another book of this kind in all of Camelot. All of Albion.

Nodding firmly, he reached up behind his back, under his coat and tucked the book tightly into his belt, wedging it in the top of his pants. He pulled down the suede coat to cover it, patting to make sure there wasn't a bulge. No, it hung loose. He pondered the disastrous mound of writing at his feet, skewed in every which way in a tangle of papers, wondering if he should try to replace them. Only he couldn't, the shelf was still broken. He snorted. "Blame it on Merlin," he mumbled to himself.

He strolled back through the castle concentrating on a calm expression, ignoring every guard he passed. He didn't notice any reaction in them, but it was hard to tell when you weren't looking.

He reached his own doorway, almost home free, just as Merlin came out of it. They jerked stiff and stared at each other.

"Merlin," Arthur said sharply, keeping his hands at his sides and not at all leaping up to cover his back.

"...Arthur," Merlin replied after a second, giving a shaky grin. "I was just... I was just stoking the embers, so they don't go down in the night."

"Right." Arthur shuffled around him. He tried to stay facing him though. When Merlin didn't budge, he tried pushing his manservant out of the way of the door by sheer dominance and a glare. As usual it worked, Merlin falling back like a hound at bay. "Well, good night, Merlin," he growled as a command, and shut the door hard.

On the inside Arthur put his forehead against the wood and waited for the cold blood to thaw, listening to Merlin's quickstep retreat. He locked the door. He made sure the room was empty before he brought out his smuggled trophy.

It lay as something sinister in his hands. He held it at full arms reach warily, golden clasps glinting malevolently, as if it could infect him just by touch. This is a sorcery book, he thought. Even holding this is treason.

He startled and looked to the doorway. It remained shut. There'd been no sound to strike his nerves, just the sudden thought of his father showing up to have a midnight chat. Not that he ever had, but, well, Arthur was holding a book on sorcery. Surely the armed soldiers were already marching on his bedroom to drag him to the dungeons, and the axe...

He put the book on the table and backed away, scowling at its leather and glint. He rubbed his hands on his pants.

He went over to brood by the fireplace, arms crossed defensively. Then he cursed himself; the fire was dark embers dying. Merlin was a lying little twit sneaking around the royal bedchambers for nefarious purposes. There would be words, oh would there be words. In the morning. Once the night didn't hang so ominously.

* * *

"What did you do?!"

Arthur came awake blinking, not reaching for his blade only because it was Merlin's voice shouting. "What?" he muttered lazily, still not fully conscious, and peered up.

Merlin was staring in shock at his bed. Arthur glanced down. The edge was soaked wet and scorched. Oh, right.

He sat up and rubbed his face to distort any expression he might be unconsciously displaying. "Accidentally caught it after I had to stoke my own bloody fire," he came up with quickly, mumbled through his palm, "since someone didn't actually stoke up like he said he did. A cinder landed on my shirt and dropped off onto the mattress." He peeked between his fingers to see if his answer was accepted, and was satisfied to see Merlin cringing. He threw a pillow at him. "Luckily an incompetent manservant left my washbasin full instead of emptying it like he should."

Merlin ducked the pillow with a smirk, not looking at all ashamed, but thankfully also not looking like he suspected anything. "First my bedroom, now yours. I'm starting to think you just like burning things."

Arthur didn't look over at the locked cupboard where he'd stashed his book. "What were you doing in my bedroom anyway, Merlin?"

That got a hesitant furtiveness. "I... I was just checking on you."

Arthur stared questioningly. "Checking on me," he prompted.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't attacked in your beauty sleep," Merlin teased, but it didn't have its usually bite. "Because of, you know. The assassin and all."

"...Right. The assassin," Arthur answered after a moment.

Merlin quirked an eyebrow. "You didn't, did you? Get attacked in your sleep, I mean. Because..." he trailed off while eyeing the bedsheets.

"Only by my worthless servant." Arthur threw another pillow for good measure, which Merlin caught. "I don't know why I would worry about assassins with you around, you'll be the death of me. You're not even here and you set fire to my bedsheets."

"You set fire to mine," Merlin retorted, and then had to duck.


	4. Chapter 4

"Where are we going?"

Arthur bit back a curse and snapped the saddlebag shut, peeking around the horse. Merlin was standing on the other side, perplexed.

Arthur was supposed to be training his knights at that moment, putting them through hellish paces in the cool morning air. But he'd waved off practice with the excuse that he'd overworked them recently, and they deserved a rest. Morale jumped a notch from its current bruised status, but he'd done it for selfish purposes.

"I'm taking a relaxing ride. You're staying here," Arthur answered, fixing his attention to adjusting the saddle straps that didn't need adjusting. "Hence why it's relaxing."

"What? But I always go out with you." Merlin's voice sounded confused and maybe a little crestfallen. "You never just leave me behind."

Arthur squinted at him. "I thought you hated riding."

"Well, yeah," Merlin said defensively, "But, I mean, you always take me with you. Where are you going?"

"Just out to get away from you for awhile." Arthur turned back to the fickle straps so he didn't see anymore of that aggravating wounded-puppy expression his manservant was displaying. "You're incessant, it's entertaining but it wears on the senses. And anyway, with the assassin business I should probably be keeping my distance." He tried not to wince as that came out of his mouth. Why did he reinforce that lie?

"...Right." Somehow that new, darker tone in Merlin's voice was even worse than the puppy face. "Well, I'll... go threaten someone else's life then."

"Merlin..." Arthur sighed, then leaned across to grab his shoulder before he could sulk off. "Don't fret about it. I'll figure this assassin business out before you know it. I've already set plans in motion." He would have to make up something about the assassin being arrested later on, or maybe killed during the arrest attempt. It didn't feel right lying to Merlin, though. It sat poorly in his gut. "Go... pluck a chicken, or something, and don't think anymore on it."

Merlin scoffed and ducked from under the arm, and jogged away dutifully, glancing back to shake his head at his master's nonsense. Arthur returned to the strap, though now it was surely painfully clear that it didn't need any more adjusting. He just needed something to do with his hands and eyes. There were too many conflictions in him right now, threatening to wage war across his features if he let them. He needed time to sort them out one by one, take them apart to the smallest pieces and figure out what shape they should be. That would be easier without Merlin around; the man only complicated things, in general.

He swung up into the saddle with grim determination and spurred out of the courtyard. He'd settle this one first, and then all the others should fall into place.

* * *

Arthur was completely alone, he was sure of it, but the woods still held their silence with woody eyes as if they could spill out an enemy at any moment. He'd wandered deeper into them each time he'd felt watched, and now he had to admit he was just imagining things. He'd been attacked too often in woods, that was all. It'd built up an instinctual reaction.

He tied up his horse by a sheer boulder that gave him some cover, and reluctantly opened up the saddlebag to haul out the book. Its glint was no less damning in forest light. He pulled it open and settled to a seated position, rock at his back, book across his legs. He flipped a few pages, frowning attentively.

No, he didn't need... no, that was... ye gods, he was never ever doing that... exploding frog, what? Why? Why an exploding frog? Oh gods, there were before and after pictures...

He grabbed the pages and threw them until he was near the front. Maybe the easy stuff was at the beginning.

Wind summoning. Okay, that sounded safe enough. Different incantations for different intensities. The lightest of which was just... Seriously? Just 'pyff'? What sort of spell was 'pyff'?

Trying to keep the lopsided smile off his face, he waved a hand vaguely. "Pyff," he said, feeling silly.

There was maybe a hint more breeze than before.

"Oh come on, pyff."

Slightly more breeze. Disappointing.

Not willing to try out the harder verbals for fear of summoning a tornado, he thumbed through the pages. Color changing. Interesting. He mouthed the word to get the feel right, then pointed his hand at a nearby tree. "Fágian."

Nothing.

Glowering, he turned back to the page and read through. Ah. He tried again, thinking of blue. "Fágian," he commanded.

The tree trunk turned bright blue. He gaped. Then he broke out laughing.

The hue faded back to the natural pale grey after a few seconds, and it was as if nothing had ever happened. It matched the rest of the forest perfectly. Unable to help himself, he held out his hand again and shouted "Fágian!"

Brilliant yellow, streaking to orange and harsh crimson at the leaves, the whole oak one glaring autumn's symphony, with shades of green and blue at the roots as they burrowed into the earth. A squirrel leapt off the branches in shock and scrambled to a nearby maple, chattering angrily.

He was giggling now, and he didn't care. He'd turned a tree many-colored.

Glancing down, he caught sight of a postscript on the page. 'Not for use on own hair,' it read, in an oddly familiar handwriting.

A crack of wood had him jerking up against the rock, fumbling for his sword, only to remember he'd left it tied on his saddle. He slid around to the side of the boulder, picking up a sturdy stick with the faintest sound. He held it at the ready, and barely breathed.

Tromping steps, trying to be quiet and failing. Coming up near his horse. Don't be horse thieves, he prayed. I don't want to walk back.

Only there was something he should worry more about than horses. The tree was still a blinding tapestry. Not even horse thieves would miss it. With the bounty for turning in information about sorcerers...

The footsteps stopped. Shuffled, stopped.

"Arthur?" called a familiar voice.

Arthur's shoulders relaxed, and he almost stepped around to shout an insult. Then he pulled himself back and tensed up again. He peered past the boulder. The tree was still very colorful. His breathing hitched.

No more sounds. Then a shuffling of feet. Merlin very clearly picking up the book where it'd dropped. Merlin's footsteps coming around the boulder towards him. Arthur blanched, not sure what to do. Should he-

Merlin came into view, spotted him, and jumped back, a staff coming up in his hands. Arthur pulled back reactively, branch at the ready.

They stared.

Merlin slowly lowered the staff. "Arthur?"

Arthur forcefully put the branch down. "Merlin," he stated.

Merlin peered him over, skeptically. "You alright?" His eyes flickered behind the Prince, searching but not spotting anything.

"Fine. Never better. What are you doing here?"

Merlin shrugged. "You had that serious look like you were off to battle something. Wasn't going to let you go it alone."

"Well I'm just fine, you don't have to mother hen over me." He stepped around Merlin, and came face to face with why he shouldn't be acting so casual. Oh hell, how was he going to explain this one away. Sorcerers! He'd come across some sorcerers casting nefarious plots, and he'd... chased them off or something. He opened his mouth to-

"Arthur," Merlin said far too patiently.

Arthur glanced back at him, weighingly.

Merlin's eyes glanced towards the forest and back to him. "Rainbow tree," he pointed out.

"Right, there was... I... there were some and I... chased..." Arthur turned away, furious with himself. Every time he started one of the lies, his gut twisted up in memory of the other's he'd spouted recently. He usually had more self control than this. Oh come on, this was just Merlin, it was easy to lie to Merlin.

Except it really, really wasn't. His father, Morgana, anyone it was easier. It fit poorly with Merlin. Like wearing someone else's armor.

The tree's colors were fading slowly back to their natural form, hints of seasonal hues almost gone. That he could wave away the rest of this so easily.

"Arthur..."

Gods, why did Merlin have to always complicate things? Arthur was tearing in twain. He wanted to deny everything and threaten and lie and run and yell and confess and show Merlin what he could do, all at once, and he wasn't which would spill over into action first. He could only tamp down on it fiercely and pray to bottle the tempest. The seconds were dragging perilously on without a response, but he couldn't come up with any one that would satisfy.

Behind him, Merlin fumbled the book and staff, fluttering of paper and creak of leather on wood. He cleared his throat. "NUM-ol fá-gi-AN."

The whole damn nearby forest lit up like a butterfly's wing.

The squirrel shrieked and fled for its tiny furry life, squealing furiously.

Arthur turned back around and collapsed heavily against Merlin, knocking the book and staff away, clinging to him like a lifeline.


	5. Chapter 5

"If you'd just let me, I could-"

"Shut up Merlin."

Once he'd gotten past the temporary hysteria brought on by tampering with sorcery - what else could have possibly caused him to grab his manservant like that - Arthur had sat himself down for a good hard look at the facts. He was a sorcerer. Alright then. There goes his entire perspective on the world and his place in it, but he would make do.

Merlin was also a sorcerer. And that was where he'd stopped looking, because that fact filled his head to the point of aching. It bounced around in his skull and poured out the ears, it was so perplexing. Worse, suddenly a hundred memories had woken up and demanded a closer examination. After the first one - branch landing on his attacker, convenient that - he'd shoved the rest back down in self defense. There was such a thing as too much thinking. If his head got any fuller he'd have to clear it out at the closest tavern.

Actually, that was a splendid idea.

"Arthur, you can't just run from this, if you'll let me-"

"I'm not running, I'm riding," Arthur explained patiently, staying just far enough ahead so that Merlin would have to jog to keep up. "It's called a horse Merlin, you should know that by now. The side you're seeing is called the backside, that's what requires you to clean the stables every week." It was so relaxingly easy to slip into normal patterns, their regular banter, and focus on the promise of beer. A good tankard would fix everything. No thinking required.

A muffled grumble, "-ur backside. Fine, you can't just-" Merlin's voice paused as he hopped a fallen log, "ride away from this. Arthur, can we talk?"

"If you need a conversation you can have one with the barmaids when we get there." Which direction was that inn, again... last visit was a few months back, it was south wasn't it?

"Arthur, just-"

"Keep up Merlin." Yes, it was south, should be over that way-

"Hengst ǽmetig."

A jerking sensation as he was pulled to a stop, only the horse walked on without him. He slipped right out of the saddle and down to collapse on his back in the dirt. After a moment the horse halted and glanced back in bewilderment.

Boots on either side of his head, and then Merlin peering down, smirking. "Can we talk now?"

Arthur pointed a finger accusingly. "That's treason."

"Last chance to be willing, but we are going to talk about it."

Arthur scowled. "Are you threatening me?"

"Yeah." Frustrating smirk.

Scoffing, Arthur rolled over and started getting up. "You best watch yourself. I put up with a lot your chaff, but my patience only goes so far."

Merlin crossed his arms. "Fine, be that way."

Arthur glared murderously, then reined in the horse and climbed back up. He stared down at his servant, challenging.

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

Arthur kicked the horse into a walk.

"Hengst ǽmetig."

He was expecting it this time, the heavy jolt in his abdomen, but no matter how tightly he gripped with his legs he still went fumbling off into the dirt. The horse nickered in confusion.

"Líffæst líne."

Roots came springing out of the ground to grapple with his waist. Arthur tried to lurch upwards, but he found himself pinned to the ground. He bucked, but they were a lot sturdier than they appeared, squeezing tight against his leather. He couldn't achieve more than a seated position.

Merlin crouched just out of reach. Arthur tried swinging at him anyway and missed.

Merlin cocked his head. "So... you're a sorcerer."

"If you don't let me go right now-"

"And now you know I'm a sorcerer." He chewed at his lip in thought.

Arthur tried getting a hand in between the roots. They clutched at him tighter.

"You're not going to tell Uther, are you?"

"What?" Arthur blinked at him. "What, no of course not, don't be stupid. His own son a warlock, he'd have a stroke."

"No, I meant... well, yeah, there's that, but I meant are you going to tell him about me."

"Don't be stupid." Maybe he could cut them with his sword... which was in the scabbard on the saddle. The horse watched him blankly.

"How long have you known about it?"

"Since just after I burned your room down. Merlin, so help me if you don't release me-"

"You could release yourself, you know."

He blinked again. Merlin was waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Here, give me your hand."

"What-" Merlin had already grabbed it, and was shucking the Prince's glove. He pressed Arthur's hand down on the roots and held it there. The living cords twisted and rippled under the skin. "There, say 'líne líesing'."

The words lilted on Merlin's tongue, changing the rough country accent to something foreign, almost inhuman. Arthur glanced down at their hands pressed together. The pose was strangely intimate. "Erm."

"C'mon Arthur. Líne..."

Their hands were extremely close to his crotch, now that he thought about it. "Líne," he said helplessly.

"Líesing."

"Líesing." A flushing warmth through his hand, and the roots unwrapped and fell apart at the seams. He huffed a breath of relief and glanced up, to catch Merlin staring very fixedly at his eyes. "What?"

"...Nothing." The odd look hidden behind ruefulness. "I could teach you more, you know. If you let me."

Arthur's mind had made an unfortunate connection and now wasn't entirely sure Merlin was talking about magic. Their hands were still together, now resting on his thigh. "Like what?" he asked, staring at them.

"Well, like..." Merlin's fingers wrapped around his and lifted their hands up, pointing them out. "Here, try this one. Croppa."

He felt a faint tingle through the fingertips where they tucked against his palm. A few feet away, a frail green plant peeked slowly up out of the soil, leaves parting to reveal a tiny violet.

"... A flower," Arthur stated flatly. "Seriously."

"C'mon, you try it."

Arthur thought about it. "...No."

"You need to try a variety to build up your skills."

"No I don't. Teach me something useful."

Rolling his eyes, Merlin shuffled closer and lay the entirety of their arms aligned together, from elbow to fingertips. This meant he was also leaning his chest against Arthur's back a bit. Arthur wasn't sure whether to tense up or not. "Just try it," Merlin murmured. "Croppa." The tingle was all through the skin where it touched his. Arthur missed the appearance of the second flower, because he'd twisted around peer at Merlin's face, which was unusually close. The eyes under the black hair glinted brighter than fireflies.

"Croppa," he mumbled. A heated rippling through his veins, and Merlin turning to him with a big smile told him he'd succeeded. Looking away quickly, he stared at the tiny cluster of violets, then shook his head to clear it. "Fine, now teach me something useful."

A snort in his ear. Then, "Gebrosnung." Tingling against the skin.

Just beyond the flowers, an oak tree fractured down the middle with a great cracking sound, as if struck by lightning. Wherever the cracks touched the trunk turned the grisly mottling of rotting wood, spreading and crumbling until the whole thing buckled inward. The top of the tree came crashing down, only to catch against the nearby trees and hang there, swaying.

"Hah!" Arthur barked a laugh. "Gebru... how did you say it? Gebrus..."

"Ge-bros-NUNG," Merlin prompted.

"Ge-bros-nung," Arthur repeated.

Nothing. The forest lay quiet.

"I know I said it right," Arthur sulked.

"Yeah. Sometimes with harder spells it takes a while to get them right. You have to really concentrate," buzzed near his ear, very distracting.

"Ge-bros-nung," Arthur demanded louder, arm stretched firmly. He frowned. He still couldn't get the spark to well up like it should. "Ge-bros-NUNG." No result.

"Want to try a few more flowers first?" Teasing.

"You can do this, I can do it," Arthur growled. "Gebros-NUNG." Still nothing.

"Actually I'm abnormally powerful," Merlin answered with a wry tone. "But I didn't get this one the first couple times either."

Arthur chuckled darkly, frustrated with himself. "You, powerful."

"Yeah."

There was something sadly honest underneath the humor in that word, and Arthur was twisting around again to study Merlin's face skeptically. His gaze was returned intensely, with blue eyes this time. He recognized this one. It sometimes came with words like 'for the rest of my life'.

"It takes practice," Merlin said to break up the silence.

Practice Arthur knew, it was a concept familiar. His mind switched to combat terminology, and he focused on the nearest tree intently, an elm, bearing down on it with his eyes, searching out its weakpoints. He tensed his arm as if holding a sword. "Gebros-nung," he commanded, the same as he might give orders to his men.

Still nothing.

He could wield this weapon like any other. It took practice, determination, and passion. He remembered how the fire had felt leaving his fingertips, tried to will it up. Tried to imagine the tree as a beast bearing down on him. He'd lunge the spell at it like a lance. "Ge-bros-NUNG."

The faintest of creaking noises, but he couldn't see any changes.

"Croppa," Merlin teased, right in his ear.

Arthur imagined the beating he wanted to give Merlin's hide. The flushing heat came up before he even said "Gebrosnung," and then built up into a river pouring down along where his arm lay with Merlin's.

The elm snapped and shook as rot spread up its sides. It shivered as its leaves withered and fell away.

"Hah!" he laughed and grabbed Merlin into a hug.

Arms came up around his back, light on the jerkin. Arthur remembered himself and tried to pull away, but snagged on them.

Merlin was staring at him intensely, eyes flicking back and forth between his own.

That wave of heat probably wasn't spell related.

After a pause, Merlin dropped his arms and grinned, looking away. It wasn't a pleasant expression, and Arthur felt as if he'd been slighted somehow. Refusing to be, he closed the distance between them. He had no real intention for the action, just a general sort of move towards Merlin, but when it ended with their lips pressed, he thought 'Well alright then'.

The arms came back up and gripped his back tightly, which was all the encouragement he needed.


End file.
